


fucking Sting.

by halowrites



Category: Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-07
Updated: 2011-03-07
Packaged: 2017-10-16 04:14:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halowrites/pseuds/halowrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>written for the 100 Ways challenge. my prompt: <i>tantric sex.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	fucking Sting.

"My favourite album," JC tells the interviewer with a bright smile, "is _Nothing Like the Sun_ , by Sting. I really like his style, man." He looks over at Chris, his smile widening even more.

 _Here we go again_ , Chris thinks, and wonders what the hell it is that JC’s discovered now.

 

*

 

"So," JC says, a couple of days later, "tantric sex. You heard of it? Apparently Sting is really into it, man—I’ve been looking it up on the internet, and wow. It sounds really kinda wild."

 _Aha. So that’s it_. Chris pulls a pillow over his head and tries to will himself back to sleep by the sheer power of his mind. And by squinching his eyes shut really, really tight. Maybe if he stays still, his dick won’t react to the _s-e-x_ word and he’ll be able to think with the head on his shoulders and not the one below his waist, and insist that rimming is the best thing ever and tantric sex sounds terrible, horrible, and no good at all—

"I know you’re awake." The pillow is pulled gently from his hands and replaced by JC’s face, which Chris totally can’t see because his eyes are shut. Tightly. He’s not looking at all—

"I can see you peeking." JC shimmies closer to him, warm and hard in all the right places and—oh, boy, _naked_ —and, oh, hell. Chris’ dick twitches happily. He senses this is a battle he’s already lost somehow. His dick apparently doesn’t care about the hows and whys, just the actual _doing_.

"I hate you," Chris mumbles, scowling at his groin. "My dick, not you," he adds, in case JC gets the wrong idea. "It’s got a mind of its own and—uh. Nothing. What’s the book?"

JC smiles happily. "The Kama Sutra. The positions in it are all part of tantra. See?" He holds up a page, and Chris peers at it. "Pictures."

Pictures, alright. Line drawings of fierce-looking men with huge dicks contorted into strange positions with blissful looking females impaled by the engorged organs.

"Woah," says Chris, because really, he honestly doesn’t think bodies were really meant to bend that way. He feels his back cramping up already. "Um…is there, like, a beginner’s section? I’m just saying, man—that looks a little, uh. Painful."

JC flicks through the pages. "There’s _hundreds_ ," he says. "We can start off simple and work up to that one, dude. It’ll be awesome."

"Sounds cool," Chris says, thinking just the opposite, but apparently his dick is now controlling his mouth as well, and oh boy, that’s just _great_. "Can I have some breakfast first?" he adds, with the part of his brain that still has enough blood left in it to register that he’s starving.

"Sure," JC says. "I need to do a little more reading on this. But hey, so far it looks as if the keywords we’re looking at here are _meditative, spontaneous_ and _intimate."_

 _Keywords? The hell?_

"Fucking Sting," Chris mutters, sliding out of bed, pretending he wasn’t hoping that the keywords were actually all going to be _rimming._

 

*

 

Spontaneous, huh? Chris can do spontaneous. He’s halfway to the kitchen, when he stops and doubles back again, poking his head round the doorway. "How about some sex now?" he asks. "Spur-of-the-moment, like."

JC glances up from the book. "You’re stretching the meaning of spontaneous to the limit, Chris."

Well, shit. "No, hey, that’s fine," Chris says, evenly. "No big deal. I’ll just go—you know. Breakfast."

"Uh huh."

He actually makes it all the way to the kitchen this time, even gets the coffeemaker filled and switched on, until finally, he can’t help himself. "How about now?" he calls out, hopefully.

JC’s voice drifts back down the hallway. "Chris—"

"Just checking." He scowls at his reflection in the window and kicks JC’s tiled floor. He kind of already hates tantric sex a lot, and he hasn’t even _had_ it yet. This, Chris thinks, does not bode well.

It’s not like Chris didn’t already know that JC’s always liked trying new things. Like the time he’d read an article about making out being the new sex, and he’d shown up at Chris’ house late one night and insisted they go for a drive.

"It’s 11pm," Chris had pointed out, "and raining." JC had just sighed and gotten that _look_ on his face, so Chris had shrugged and grabbed a jacket on his way out the door. Okay, so there was some slow kissing with a bit of tongue in there, too, but mostly, Chris reasoned later, it had been the look. JC could make himself resemble something pretty fierce when he put his mind to it. He’d driven the car to some dimly-lit street, unbuckled his seatbelt, and proceeded to kiss Chris until he was in danger of blacking out from lack of oxygen coupled with a severe lack of bloodflow to his brain, due to it all rushing south in an unholy hurry. Chris had no idea that just kissing could be so, well, _hot_. He’d grabbed JC’s hand and shoved it down his pants, groaning with toe-curling bliss when JC’s knuckles had scraped against his dick. Chris didn’t think he’d ever been so hard in his entire life.

"No, no," JC had murmured, slipping his hand back out of Chris’ pants, and reaching for his seatbelt. "We’re just making out, remember? Nothing more. The article said it’s better that way." He’d driven Chris home again, waving a cheery goodbye out of the car window as Chris had stood, still a little stunned, slowly getting drenched in the driveway with the worst case of blue balls in the entire history of the world. Revenge had taken place a few weeks later, and had involved the offending magazine article and a hurried jerking-off session in JC’s bathroom. The sight of the stuck-together pages had warmed Chris’ heart in ways that were pure and true, and probably more than a little twisted, so he’d tried not to think about them too much. And, as he’d reasoned, JC had long moved onto some other new thing by then anyway, and probably didn’t need the magazine anymore. Hopefully.

There’d been a little light bondage last summer, Chris recalls, but that had lost its appeal somewhat when JC proved to have an annoying tendency to fall asleep before he got around to untying Chris again, and Lance had been forever yelling at them both for ruining all his best silk ties. Next had come a solid month of phone sex, which Chris had really, really enjoyed, despite totally destroying three cellphones during the more enthusiastic sessions. JC really had a very filthy mouth on him, something Chris had never appreciated until he heard it purring into his ear from down a phoneline.

The food-sex phase had lasted barely a week—JC’d had some bizarre allergic reaction to the chocolate spread he’d had carefully slathered all over his dick for Chris to lick off one Sunday afternoon, and as a result, walked weirdly for three days afterward. "It _itches_ ," he’d hissed in Chris’ ear in the middle of a radio interview a few days later. "I’m gonna have to slip out of here and scratch it. Cover for me, okay?"

"Um," Chris had said, and made some lame joke to the bemused deejays about JC and incontinence problems, all the while trying desperately not to notice him in the next room rubbing furiously at his groin and moaning not-so-quietly in bliss at the relief.

"Rimming!" JC had announced just last month, and flipped Chris over onto his belly and well-- to Chris’ delight, this had turned out to be by far his favourite thing _ever_. JC’s tongue was nothing short of fucking fantastic, and unfailingly enthusiastic in its quest to render him boneless and blissed-out. Chris had found himself wondering what sort of small animals he’d have to sacrifice to ensure that _this_ thing was the thing JC decided was best of all. Maybe a ferret, he’d thought, eyeing up Dirk surreptitiously.

"Pervert," Lance had snarled, snatching Dirk up and hurrying away, casting murderous glances at Chris over his shoulder as he went.

Chris sighs, rubbing his temples as he waits for the coffeemaker to do its thing. As it’s turned out, not even the promise of a sacrificial ferret has proven enough to appease the gods and hold back the force of freaky nature that is JC on a quest for the ultimate sexual high.

Hell, who knows—maybe tantric sex might not be all that bad. Sting does it, and, Chris has to admit, he still looks pretty damn good for his age. And maybe this phase will only last as long as the food sex. Especially if he can work some of the chocolate spread in there for his own nefarious purpose.

"So, um, JC?" he calls out, hopefully.

"Yeah?" comes the reply drifting back.

"Is there rimming in tantric sex? Like, the spontaneous sort?"

 

*

 

"Okay," Chris says, once he’s pleasantly full of coffee and toast. "Tell me more about this tantric deal."

JC stretches out on his side, resting on one elbow, reading glasses perched on his nose. "Well, it says here in the book that tantric sex _‘attempts to awaken powerful psychic energies within through which we can enter into higher states of consciousness’_."

"Kinda like a séance," Chris says. "That’s all about awakening psychic energies, too. Remember that ouija board we had in Germany? That was some freaky shit." He picks a toast crumb out of his bellybutton. "But I’m thinking that’s not what you meant, right?"

"What gave it away?" JC mutters, glaring at him.

"You biting my thigh," Chris points out, rubbing at the indentations JC’s teeth have left. "Okay, okay—I’ll listen, I promise. Tell me some more about the positions."

JC beams. "They have such cool names," he says, sitting up and arranging himself cross-legged on the bed. "Like this one." He looks at the book and starts to read. _"The flower in bloom."_

Chris swallows back his laugher and nods in what he hopes looks like an encouraging way. It must work, because JC continues.

 _"Your woman draws up both her knees until they nestle the curves of her breasts; her feet find your armpits. She cups and lifts her buttocks with her palms, spreads her thighs and places her heels next to her hips, while you caress her breasts."_ JC finishes reading and sits there, smiling like the Cheshire cat.

"Um." Chris rubs his nose. "I’m not trying to be a smartass or anything, but, uh—"

"No, go ahead. Your input is important here. "

"Well, it’s just. Hmmm. ‘Your _woman_ ’? I’m wondering just how much of a higher state of consciousness I’m going to have to get into here before one of us turns into a chick, y’know?"

JC sighs. "You’re not thinking outside the square, Chris. Okay, so we’ll move on to the next one. That’s fine."

Chris looks at him doubtfully. "Right. I’m just saying, these had better improve as we go on."

"Give them a chance. There’s always room for a little improvisation." JC clears his throat. "Ready for the next one?"

"As I’ll ever be, " Chris mutters, ignoring the look JC’s angling at him. "C’mon, c’mon. I’m getting cold here."

JC pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and starts to read. "This one sounds do-able. No breasts mentioned anywhere, okay? "

"Okay." Chris nods. _"Now_ we’re getting somewhere."

"This one’s called _‘The jewel case’—"_

Chris can’t help himself. "Now I’m a CD?"

 _"Chris—"_

"Sorry, sorry—carry on."

 _"Your legs should lie along hers_ —okay, _his-- joining them from toes to thighs. Your,_ uh, _man-- can remain below you, or you can lie side by side, in which case he should always be on your left_. Um, okay….I’ll just put my leg here—and, hmmm—you move yours _there_ —and….what? What now?" JC stops, one leg poised in mid-air, glaring.

"That’s not your left," Chris points out. "That’s _my_ left. It’s supposed to be your left. You’re kinda more—middle, I’d say. With a definite predilection to the right."

JC raises an eyebrow and huffs out, "fine," as he shifts his legs, knocking the book off the bed in the process. "Goddamnit —can you pass me that, Chris?"

"Hang on." Chris shimmies out from under JC’s legs a little, and stretches out a hand, feeling around blindly on the floor. "No, it’s—you’ll have to move up a bit, C. I can’t—ah, almost—no. I can’t reach."

"If you’d just let me—"

"Jesus—when’s the last time you had a pedicure?" Chris slaps at JC’s feet. "Your toenails are like lethal weapons. Fucking hell—"

JC sits upright, slapping back at Chris’ hands. "Are you bleeding? No? Well, shut the fuck up."

"Bitch." Chris balances precariously on the edge of the bed as he reaches for the book, finally managing to snag it with his fingertips. "Here’s your precious book."

"Fine." JC snatches it from him, flicking through the pages. "What was I up to?"

"Gouging the skin off my legs with your toenails— _ow_. Okay, okay—no more biting, alright?"

JC snorts derisively. "Ah, here we are— _‘To add a twist to the element, your thighs are interlaced and squeeze each other in a pulsating rhythm. This is called "The Squeeze."_ Silence for a beat, then JC quickly flicks over to the next page. "I’m not saying I don’t trust you, Chris—but I’m sensing a high risk to my balls here, so I think we’ll move on. If that’s okay with you, of course."

Chris waves his hand dismissively. "Fine, whatever. It’s not me who doesn’t know my left from my right."

 _"The rustic,_ " JC reads, pointedly ignoring him. _"Get her_ \--, uh-- _him_ , sorry-- _to lie on his back with both his thighs pressed tightly together and make love to him, keeping your thighs outside his. Because the vagina ends up embracing and engulfing the penis in its entirety, it becomes quite enjoyable._ Hey, this one sounds-- oh. Um. Right."

Chris can’t keep the smirk off his face. "I’m still pre-op, honey," he lisps, leaping up and waggling his dick happily in JC’s face. "Vagina-less in Orlando. But hey, by all means, carry on. Next?"

"You know what?" JC says, slamming the book shut with a bang. "I’m suddenly not in the mood anymore."

"Me either," snaps Chris, climbing off the bed. He pauses in the doorway, feeling entirely spiteful. "What I _am_ in the mood for is some chocolate spread. Want some?"

 

*

 

So the tantric sex phase only lasted a few hours, and Chris isn’t really all that sad about it. JC’s refusal to speak to him has lasted slightly longer, which also suits Chris fine, because it happily coincides with his own resolution not to speak to JC, either.

"You know," he says to Lance on the phone, "I actually suspect Sting is a really miserable man, underneath all that surface serenity and shit."

"You’re probably right, " Lance says, sounding distracted and just a little breathless, "but can I go now? I actually have company."

"Are you having sex?" Chris sighs. "You totally are, aren’t you?" He bets Lance is. In fact, he’s quite certain the whole world is having sex. Every single person, except for him. Okay, and Lou Pearlman, because, ew. And Chris can’t believe he just thought about Lou naked and—oh, god. "I have to go, too," he says, grimacing. "I think I’m going to throw up."

"That’s, oh god-- _great_ ," he hears Lance moan, just before he hangs up.

 

*

 

Four days is how long the not-speaking resolution lasts. For both of them. It ends simultaneously when JC walks in on Chris jerking off in the shower, resulting in an afternoon spent in bed and several mind-blowing, toe-curling orgasms. Chris also manages to destroy another cellphone, though he’s still not entirely sure how it happened.

"Hey," he says, lying spread-eagled on the bed, JC sprawled warm and damp and sated across his thighs, "what kind of sex was that, then?"

"Mmm," says JC, sleepily. "That was make-up sex."

Chris smiles happily. "Best sex ever, obviously. Who needs tantra?"

"Not us," JC agrees. "Maybe we could go back to rimming."

"I fucking love you, man," Chris says, because really, he totally does.

 

*

 

The phone rings, and Chris glances at the caller display. JC’s number. Chris frowns, because, hey, isn’t he supposed to be at the Grammies?

"JC? Aren’t you at the—"

"Chris, is that you? Hey, man. I’m at the Grammies. On the carpet, doing the walking thing— ooh, hold on." The sound of rustling, and Chris hears a muffled _hey, Lenny_ before JC comes back on the line a few moments later. "Um, sorry. That was, y’know. Lenny."

Chris can’t help but grin. "You don’t say. Hey, don’t they get all weird about people using cellphones on the red carpet?"

"They do?" JC sounds doubtful. "I mean, well I guess they might, but I don’t think—"

"Not that I’d recall, really," Chris continues. "It has been a while since I’ve been, afterall. I’m relying on memory here. Ancient memory at that. Of course, if I’d been invited—or, y’know, even asked to go as _someone’s_ date, then I’d be able to tell you for sure—"

"Chris." JC sighs down the phone. "You know I only barely managed to get into them myself, man. After the whole Janet’s nip—"

"Don’t say it," Chris mock-whispers. "Whatever you do, don’t say nipple. They get all weird about that, too."

JC makes some little noise of exasperation, and Chris can feel his grin getting wider. Sometimes, it’s just like shooting fish in a barrel. "Anyway," JC says, after a beat, "I called to tell you that—"

"You love me?"

\--"Sting is here. _Sting_. I’m waving to him right now. Isn’t that cool, Chris?"

"Oh, _fuck,_ " Chris groans.

Fucking _Sting_.


End file.
